


Buying Curtains for the Casa Erotica

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Angst and Humor, Curtain Fic, Established Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Jewelry, M/M, Romance, motel sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-22
Updated: 2012-06-22
Packaged: 2017-11-08 07:01:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/440449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years after defeating Yellow Eyes at the Gate, after their dad’s death, the boys are happily grounded at a motel of their own. But one wrong romantic gesture from Sam and Dean is well and truly spooked. Shocker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Buying Curtains for the Casa Erotica

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Long Beach Iced Tea of a story: a little sweet, a little sour. Long enough to linger over and pink as all get out. But it’ll all look pretty in the morning.

Sam’s not talking to me this morning.

Which is just freaking great. Just the way I like to start my day: with a fight.

I sit down at the kitchen table and drink my coffee, watch him poke at the pan and not look at me.

Outside, it’s beautiful. Sunny and warm with the promise of more guests this evening, of a decent week even though it’s still early in the season.

Inside? It’s still dark.

He puts a plate of eggs in front of me and retreats. Crosses his arms and drinks his coffee at the counter.

Yep.

I guess I could just apologize—I know that’s what he wants—but damn it, I don’t feel like it. I’m not the one who’s in the wrong here.

He stands there for a minute, waiting, just fucking certain that I’m gonna say something.

Well, I’m not.

Finally he gives up. Sighs and slaps a yellow pad on the table. Points.

“Your list,” he says.

He marches out, through the living room, out the door to the apartment, and into the lobby. I hear him scrabbling around the front desk, opening the register and banging shit all over the place.

Fine.

I get up, grab my keys and the list. Whistle for Diana.

She doesn’t show.

Huh.

I go out to the lobby and there she is, lying at Sam’s feet and glaring. Daring me to say a fucking word.

Great. Even the dog's mad at me. Awesome.

I skulk out without speaking and slam the front door as hard as I can.

**

I make it through the morning without breaking anything, which is good. Work my way down the list, crossing shit off as I go.

He makes one for me every morning, now: shit that needs fixed, errands that need to be run, rooms I need to clean. And yeah, I bitch about the list sometimes, but it’s actually kind of great. I love being able to draw a big fat line through stuff when it’s finished. Feel like I’ve accomplished something, just pulling the pen across the page like that.

It's so different than before, where nothing was ever resolved, where the mission just stretched out ahead of you like the ocean does here, long and lasting and never-ending.

Yeah. I like lists.

But this morning, it felt like a punishment.

Anyway.

I fix the shower in #8. The thing's always been wonky: funny pressure, loud pipes, the works.

The first time I fixed it, Sam "helped" by bitching at me the whole time, questioning my knowledge of pipe wrenches and torque. I swear, he spent the whole hour saying stuff like "Shouldn't you disconnect the showerhead first?" and "Try using more WD40" and "I don't think the water should be brown."

Really, Sam? No shit.

When it was done, finally, I banged out of the tub and grabbed him, pushed him into the wall and took my frustration out on his tongue, got him good and hard and greedy, had him panting my name and on his knees in front of me—

And then I walked away, grabbed my wrench and swaggered out, calling "Hey, you're gonna need some torque for that, Sammy."

Didn't get to the door before he tackled me, shoved my hips into the carpet and sucked my cock, glaring at me the whole damn time.

Sam's the only person I know who can be pissed and horny at once.

Take more towels to the Graysons in #4. Two men and a woman, came in last week from Rhode Island, I think? Very clean cut, spend a lot of time at the beach, it seems like. They’ve wanted extra towels every day, but they tip well and we haven’t had any complaints, so it’s worth a little extra soap.

And it gives us something to guess about, a little mystery to puzzle over when it’s quiet.

When we’re speaking, anyway.

One of the dudes answers the door, looking totally normal in that math teacher kinda way and so not weird that I forget to be suspicious. Until he disappears and shoots the bolt and then, oh yeah. They are totally having an orgy in there. Or some kinda blood sacrifice.

Nah. Probably just an orgy.

#4 was the one with the possum. We found it right after we bought the place, when we were doing this survey of all ten rooms and making a big list of all the cool shit we needed to buy. Like, I got to say "We need a band saw!" and make Sam write it down, because we did! Need a band saw. Whatever that is.

Anyway, when we were scoping #4, I opened the closet and the damn rodent blew past me, scooted over Sam's boots, and made like crazy for the woods.

Sam looked disgusted.

"Bleach," he said grimly. "Gonna need a lotta bleach. And maybe some traps. And tetanus shots."

See, that's Sam for you. Always seeing the negative. And the need for vaccinations.

Me? I loved the potential of this place. Still do. I mean, when we bought it, it was just about ground down to nothing: the old dude who owned it had basically given up, and mostly rented to guys like Sam and me who paid in cash and didn't want any hassle.

Or a truckload of clean towels. I mean, more than one a day.

I was bullshitting with the guy one night, tired of listening to Sam bitch about fucking everything, even though the war was over. Even though we'd won. Hell, we'd stopped it at the Gate before it even got started, really, and yet all Sam could do was whine about the State of the World and global warming and Ron Paul or whatever, and fuck, I could practically recite his whole sermon at that point. So I took off and made for the lobby, looking for a little non-crazy company and maybe to bum a cigarette, and after a beer or two the guy started telling me how much he hated this place. How bored he was, how much he wanted to get out and see what he can see, or something.

And I don't know if it was conscious or not, but I started talking up the road, you know, singing the praises of pie, and the cool people, and how pretty Nevada is in the middle of winter and man, I could practically see the gears turning in this dude's head. I told him this tale of like easy sex and cheap beer and those parts of America that were still like America used to be.

By the end of the night, we were practically blood brothers. He'd given me his last pack of Camel Reds and asked me to think, really think, about taking over this place while he blows west and makes up for all the years he'd been stuck here, here at his family's motel. Like the last legacy of his dad's pipedream, or something, this place.

But then Sam stormed in and dragged me away, made me throw out the Reds, the bastard, and wouldn't listen when I tried to tell him what the dude had said. About like what an awesome opportunity this was for us. No, he wouldn't listen to me talk.

So I kind of kissed him.

And when I say "kind of," what I mean is, I went for it, snuggled up his lap in front of the TV and tried to plant my tongue in his mouth. But he bucked, dumped me on the floor and told me I was drunk (and?) and what the hell was I thinking, but. The look on his face? It wasn't as sure about it as his words were.

I got up, swimming in beer and nicotine and just started taking shit off. My boots. My shirts. My belt. By the time I was down to denim he was making this weird noise, like a helicopter that was out of gas, kind of whirring and groaning, and he backed himself into a corner. Got as far away from me as he could without, you know, actually leaving the room like maybe he’d have done if he really did want to get away. If he really didn't want to do this.

He was like a baby bird stuck on a moose's body, all trembly and fearful and saying "No, we can't" and "It's not right" and "Don't, Dean. Don't."

And maybe the last one sounds bad, a little, but he moaned that into my skin, his mouth dug into my throat as I barreled my way into him. His hands snapped over my ears and he pulled me up, kissed me, overwhelmed me with all of this weird energy that'd always been kicking around inside him. That tension I'd seen in him for years, but especially this last one, all of it came rushing out in this string of words and sounds and touches. He got me naked and buried me in the bed, got me off before he'd even undressed. And again when we were skin to skin, his fingers sliding over my cock as he fucked me out, low and sweet, his mouth dirty as hell.

It was—

It was in #7, that that happened.

Next on my list.

I go in 7 to change the sheets, straighten the towels while the guests, these two nice guys from Santa Fe, are out. Run my hand over the mattress, maybe for a little too long. I remember waking up that next morning, my head folded into Sam's back, my hand draped over his hip. The sound he made when he rolled over, saw me looking back. His eyes, lit up like he was in on some really good joke. The brush of his mouth on mine. Gentle. Almost not at all.

Goddamn it. I hate fighting with him. Even when it's so clearly his fault.

It's Monday, so he'll be doing the books right now. He loves that shit: anything that involves a calculator and a pencil and he is fucking golden for a few hours.

He'll have to make a bank run. Put the sign on the door that says he’ll be back and take his stupid truck into town. With Di.

Diana’s my dog, except when she’s Sam’s.

She showed up a couple months after we moved in, this little black ball of fluff and curls that jumped me while I was out shoveling the walk. Now I don't think I like dogs, as a concept, but that day I picked her up like it was nothing, cradled her to me. She shoved her nose into my coat, snuffling, and then looked right up at me with these big puppy dog eyes you think I'd be immune to by now. But she saw right through me, sat up and licked my face, and even though she was dirty as hell and smelled like something dead, I hugged her and called her baby and took her inside to Sam.

I taught her to appreciate pie and how to steal Sam’s blankets at night. Usually, she’s my partner during the day.

But when Sam and I fight? Damn if she doesn’t always take his side.

I key into each of the other rooms, make sure the empty ones are ready and the occupied ones are stocked.

Cross each room off my list as I go.

Make notes as needed, like: "#2: sink dripping again" and "#10: curtains need to be cleaned."

When I’m done, I go back to the lobby, expecting to see Sam, or at least hear him rattling around in the back, but he's not there. Just a note on the desk that says he took Di to the beach, and can I watch the front desk for the afternoon.

Fuck me. He knows I hate being cooped up inside, especially when it's as pretty as it is today.

He knows I hate being alone.

I didn't realize how pissed he was at me. Fantastic.

I make sure the lobby door’s unlocked and make a fast sandwich. Park myself at the fucking desk and stare out the picture window. At the dust that's hanging in the curtains, and damn, are we gonna have to wash all of the fucking things this week? Crap. Must be the pollen.

You don't realize how much random shit you'll have to deal with, in a job like this.

Ok, I didn't.

It was my idea to take the old dude up on his offer, to take over the place for him.

"But he'll want money," Sam said, frowning at me from under his stupid bangs, his back pressed against the headboard.

"We have money," I said, reaching over him to grab the remote.

"No, but—" he caught my arm. "Dude. Do you know how much it costs to buy a house? Let alone a motel. We're talking serious cash here, Dean."

I was kind of leaning over him, my chest against his stomach. His fingers around my wrist. Distracting as hell.

I lost my train of thought.

"Huh?" I said, my face in this big ass grin.

His eyes narrowed and he shook me, a little.

"Are you listening? This is crazy, man. It'll never work. Why would he give up this place? In this economy? You know, the global markets are—"

"Oh, fuck me," I huffed, and rolled up into him.

He snorted and got a better grip.

"Jesus, you're bossy," he said. "Can't I just kiss you first? God."

We went around and around like that for a couple of days. Because we could, I think. Hell, we didn't have anywhere else we had to be.

Because, at first, after Dad died, everything was the same.

After we'd sealed the Gate, killed Yellow Eyes. But not before Dad had to be a hero, had to sacrifice himself.

No.

Like I told Sammy, I think it was the supernatural equivalent of suicide by cop: if any of us weren’t gonna leave the Gate alive, it was Dad. He was ready to go. Ready to rest.

So the first chance he had, the first opportunity he saw to go head-to-head with that bastard: he took it, his soul shredded to ribbons, his body just a heartbeat behind.

Say what you will, though, about a death wish. Dad slowed him down just enough for the rest of us to finish the job. To seal the Gate for good and send Yellow Eyes back to the lowest circle of Hell.

If Hell has a septic tank, that’s where the son-of-a-bitch is now.

But after all of that, everything should have been different. After we'd won.

I think that was a concept that neither of us was real comfortable with. After a year of running around together, chasing Dad and the demon, running away from both the future and the past—victory wasn't something either of us had considered. Not really.

Honestly, the whole notion of the present seemed like a foreign concept.

And so when it ended, kinda all of a sudden, like somebody just flipped a switch, neither of us knew what to do, at first.

So we kept driving. That seemed easiest.

I mean, there were still random ghosts and werewolves and strega out there to fight, sure. People to save. That wasn't gonna change. So I figured that's what we'd do, what we'd keep doing. At least until we decided what was gonna come next.

Not like we talked about it or anything. Thank god.

But then we ended up here, in this little town called Eliot in Maine, just over the border with New Hampshire. At this beat up motel called the "Sleepy Inn."

And we're still here. Two years on, two seasons worth of tourists come and gone, and we're still here. Home.

Yeah. I don't believe it either.

I finish my sandwich. Turn on the radio and stare down the desk. It's old, real wood that I sanded down, that Sam painted, that we fucked on, more than once. Before we opened. Little more difficult with guests sniffing around.

Not impossible. But it's been a long time.

I run my thumbs over the edge, where it's worn from Sam's elbows and mine, leaning peacefully in the same spot.

The first time, we were arguing over what to call this place. What we were gonna change the name to, because, wow, was the "Sleepy Inn" lame.

“We're not calling it the Casa Erotica, Dean," Sam sighed, like he had the final say.

“Why not?” I demanded, shooting daggers at him from my perch on the desk.

He put on his Stanford voice. Lecturing. “Dude, first of all, this is a motel, not a whorehouse.”

“Cathouse, Sammy, the proper term is—”

“Whatever. Second, I'm pretty sure ‘Casa Erotica’ is trademarked and we'd totally get sued. And lose.”

I stuck out my lip. Banged my heels on the desk until it groaned in protest and hacked up some dust.

“Fine,” I huffed. “Be a killjoy. But we'd get some awesome customers that way.”

“Yeah,” he said, stepping right in front of me. Snagging his fingers in my belt. “Some horny old guys looking for hookers.”

“Dude!” I said, snaking my arms around his big, moosey neck. “Don't try and kiss me when you're talking about horny old guys. Yuck.”

He grinned. Opened his mouth below mine.

“One day, that'll be you, you know,” he murmured in this voice I love. Kind of secretive and filthy.

“Bullshit,” I breathed. “I'll never have to pay for it.”

He snorted and palmed my hips. Yanked me to the edge of the desk, pulled until our bodies knocked.

I moaned—couldn’t help it—and wrapped my legs around his waist. Closed my lips over his tongue and sucked, which made him preen and hum back into my mouth. His arms twisted up, closed around my chest. Held me close, his tongue working in, tucking these soft little growls into my throat.

Then, out of nowhere, he picked me up, the son-of-a-bitch! lifted me right off the damn desk and carried me behind it, into the apartment, my fists in his hair, his fingernails in my back.

It was dusty and a little stale in there, but fuck, I was so hot he could have laid me on the carpet, out on a damn tarp, and I woulda been happy, but, no. He dropped me on the bed instead.

He stood over me and stripped, let me see all of him at once which, god, never gets old. I got grabby, tried to pull him down with me, but he shook me off, his eyes gleaming like he knew something I didn't.

"Get up," he said.

I did, barely, and he fell past me. Stretched out, his body gleaming in the afternoon sun. All long lines and muscle and that stupid Sam face.

Jesus, he was beautiful. Is. And damn if he doesn't know it, too.

"Take your clothes off," he purred, winding the words out over his teeth. Grinning like a goddamn lion.

I pulled the fuckers off like they were on fire, and even that wasn't fast enough after he slinked his fingers around his cock while he watched me. Made my mouth water, seeing that, hearing him whimper just from his own hand. So I was sort out of it even before I hit the bed, before he laughed and pulled my head over his. He kissed me until I couldn't breathe, made me beg until I was hoarse, and then, only then, let me suck him, let me hold him against my tongue and watch him, feel him dissolve under all the pleasure I could give him.

I slid up his body, after, planted my knees on either side of his chest, panting. He opened his mouth, cradled my cock between his lips and teased me until I was almost crying from it, for it, his fingers whispering over my thighs and his eyes burning up into mine. Then he grabbed my ass and yanked me forward, like he'd done before, on the desk, until I banged against the back of his throat and I came so hard I saw stars, hell, I saw fucking planets spinning away, out over his head and into the woods and up, up into some crazy space that we build every time we're together.

"This is a sign, Sam," I said later, my face smashed into his chest. My voice rumpled. “The sex gods have spoken: we gotta call it the Casa Erotica."

He rumbled and ran a hand through my hair.

"No," he said, tugging my head up to his. "Not gonna happen." He licked my lips. “And you’re not a sex god, dude.”

Shows you what he knows.

I made an outraged noise, because wow, what a dick, and dove back into him. Gave him a chance to see the error of his ways.

I'm always doing that, giving him another chance.

Can't figure out why he won't do the same for me.

**

It's slow today and I'm grateful. Grateful and annoyed at the same time.

Got three check-ins scheduled for six but it’s only 3:30 and man, am I bored.

It’s so quiet that I have time to keep thrashing through last night, picking apart the fight like some new genius insight is gonna shine through, when I already know what happened. Why Sam is so goddamn mad.

Why he was so clearly in the wrong.

Trust Sam to start a fight after sex, too. Jerk.

So, last night. We'd closed up the desk, turned off the sign and headed to bed.

It was late, too. Like after midnight already.

But then I went in to shave while Sam was in the shower, and he did this whole routine to try and tempt me in. Turned under the spray and sighed, rubbed his big hands over his shoulders and made loud noises about not being able to reach his back.

Whatever. He's fucking transparent.

But I gave up and climbed in, tried to wash my hair and clean my ears even as he reached for me, tried to kiss me, shot water up my nose with his stupid fumbling, until I had to grab him, push him under the water and lead with my tongue. By the time the hot water was gone we were kissed out and hard as fuck and he practically dragged me to bed, still dripping, and put his mouth to the best possible use.

So that was cool.

But then we got all sweet and sleepy, breathing heavy together in the dark, content just to be close.

I was drifting, getting on towards dreams, Diana’s head tucked into my ankle, her nose wet against my skin. Sam’s hands on me, stroking and soothing and pushing me under.

It was nice.

But then he rolled away for a second, came back with something hard, something small and square that he set on my stomach.

Didn’t say a goddamn word, at first.

Brought his hand up to my face instead and traced my jaw, his nails rough and quick. Started snuffling in his chest like he does when there’s something he can’t wait to tell me. Good news that he’s gotta share.

Fuck. I should have known. I should have fucking known.

But still. He said nothing.

“Sam,” I said, after a minute. Not bothering to open my eyes. “What? What is it?”

He made this little chuffing sound and pressed a hand into my shoulder. Leaned down and kissed me, quick. I felt the square thing lift away. Heard him snap it open. And my brain kind of knew what it was, then, even in the dark. Even with all that quiet, all those crickets, wrapped around us.

He sighed and pulled my right hand up to his mouth. Kissed my wrist. Pushed something into my palm. Something hard and cold and round.

My eyes flew open and I got still. Really really still.

He saw me staring and said, “Dean.”

“What?” I said again, hearing my voice creak.

He slid his fingers over mine, sweeping, then took the ring—I knew that’s what it was—from my hand and tried to slide it over my—

I shot up and yanked my hand away. Tucked my fingers into a fist.

“No,” I snarled before I could stop myself. “No fucking way!”

He yanked on the lamp and we glared at each other, the softness in his face chased away by fury, stupid box in one hand, goddamn ring in the other.

Diana sat up, confused, her ears swiveling back and forth. Alarmed. Not sure where the danger was.

“Dean, you don’t understand. It’s for you. I want you to have—“ he started, still trying to reason with me, which was cute.

I bared my teeth. “I’m not wearing your fucking ring, Sammy. I’m not you’re damn girlfriend.”

His eyes got dark and he pitched over into Damian mode. “Really?” he said, his voice like barbed wire. “You think I’m asking you to prom here, asshole? This is serious. I love you and I’m trying to—”

I didn’t let him finish. Couldn’t.

“Shut up, goddamn it! Just shut the fuck up!” I shouted, fear infecting my fist, sending it flying into his shoulder, hard.

His face—

I didn’t let myself think about it, then, or really process it, because his face was just—

Crushed. Smashed like a beer can.

So I kept yelling.

“We can’t do this! We’re—do you know how many ways we’re tempting fate already, Sam? Being here? Staying in one place all the goddamn time?” I shouted, all this crap pouring out of me. All this fear.

Because I was scared. I admit it.

No. I was fucking terrified. I am.

He dropped the ring, the box, and leapt up, sent Diana shooting out of the room.

"This was your idea!' he shouted. "Yours, Dean! Are you telling me that you don't—that you don't want to—"

Scared. Sammy was scared, too. Huh. I can sorta see that now.

But at the time, I came right back at him instead. Instinct.

"There's a difference!" I said. "Damn it, Sam. There's a big difference between going respectable and finding a job and—" I trailed off, hoping he'd fill in the rest.

He just stared at me.

"And what?" he yelled. "Fucking your brother? I mean, newsflash, Dean: you've been doing that for two years!"

"What, so wearing a ring is gonna make that better, somehow?" I said, snarling. "Really. We'll be legit then, sweetheart? What the fuck difference does it make? We're together. We know it. That's enough, ok? Why does anyone else need to know? Why do we have to go around announcing it to the whole goddamn world?!"

His face hardened.

God, I hate it when he looks at me like that. Like I've disappointed him.

"Oh," he said. Sarcastic as fuck. "Is that it. So you're ok with sleeping with me”—he let his voice roll up real loud—"with loving me, but only if no one else knows about it. Really. So you think that no one we've met since we've been here has any idea that we're"—his mouth twisted—"in love, or whatever. Uh huh."

I started flailing, because I could see what an ass I sounded like. What a jerk. How much I was hurting Sam, but I couldn't help it, how I felt. How I feel.

"Look," I said, puffing out my chest, and it's really hard to be a badass when you're buck naked. "Seriously, man. This is between us, ok? It's private. Doesn't mean I don't—care about you, or whatever, it's just that I don't think it's anybody's fucking business but ours. Why is that so hard for you to understand?"

"It's not," he said. Quiet, all of a sudden. "I get it, Dean. I do."

And then he stopped talking. Pulled on his jeans. His boots. Didn’t look at me. Didn’t speak to me.

It would have been easier if he’d yelled. Or glared. Called me names. Punched me in the damn face.

Looked at me.

But he didn’t do anything.

Just reached over, when he was dressed, and snapped off the light, me still standing there naked, like a jackass.

One second, I could see him. The next, he’d disappeared.

I heard him say something to Di, calm her down, and then bang out into the lobby. Heard the front door slam, his stupid truck choke and turn over.

Heard him leave.

I threw myself into bed, pulled the sheets over my face, and went to sleep. Eventually.

I woke up half-expecting him not to be here, for him to still be gone. But, no, there he was in the kitchen, poking at some eggs and talking sweet to Diana.

Shut up as soon as I came in.

Put a plate in front of me and handed me the list.

I see the stupid thing under me, under my hands at the desk, near the register, and crumple it up in my fist. Toss it in the trash.

I’m done for the day.

**

It's almost eight and he still isn't back yet.

Our three reservations showed up right on time. Got them checked into 1 and 6 and 10.

#1's the place where Sam nailed me with the staple gun, "accidentally."

I locked myself in the bathroom in #6 while I was laying new tile last winter. Took Sam all afternoon to pull his head out of his ass and figure out I was missing. He made it up to me with hamburgers and half-decent beer and some quality time on the couch.

#10, that's the one with the window that hasn’t closed right since the weather got warm. We get a call about it every week and I'm just gonna have to replace the whole thing, I know it.

Maybe I should start a list for tomorrow.

After the guests showed up, I got antsy, got so itchy that I did some housework. Washed the dishes from this morning and made the bed.

Found the damn ring there. It’s this silvery-looking thing, heavier than it seems like it should be. Pretty, I guess, with an intricate design cut in it.

Took me a while to figure out what it was, that design, but I think it’s ivy. This long winding strand than stretches all the way around the circle with some smaller crap carved into the leaves that I can’t really see.

Like I said, it’s beautiful. Not really me, though. I have a ring. Don’t need another one. Especially one from Sam, one that made him put his heart into his eyes like that. That he associated with “I love you.”

It’s in my pocket now. Just for safekeeping. I couldn’t find the box.

I stretch out on the sofa and dig out the remote. Keep one eye on the door. On the weekends, in season, we keep the lobby open late, one of us at the desk until after midnight, the sign lit up and shining all night along.

That's what supposed to happen, anyway.

But we usually just keep the door to the apartment open enough so we'll hear if the door buzzes or the house phone rings. Then we turn on the TV to some terrible reality show that I’ve seen like 15 times, or the news, or whatever dumb shit Sam wants to see on PBS, and curl up on the couch.

Then we argue, talk back to the TV, make out during the commercials, and nine times out of ten, I end up with Sam's head in my lap, his mouth wet and wide around my cock, my hands on his shoulders, in his hair, or dug into the cushions, biting my lip, half-listening for the door and half not giving a shit who can hear, who can see, because I feel kind of invincible, when we're like that.

It's like I can't quite believe that he's still here. That I'm here. That we're both in one piece.

I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I should have known he was planning something when he got that package from Bobby last week.

Yeah, I bet that’s where he got this damn thing. From Bobby. I bet the carvings are all power signs, sigils and symbols and wards of protection.

It’s digging into my hip like a bitch. Damn it.

I’ve got nowhere else to put it, nowhere it won’t get lost, so I’ll—

I’ll just run it over my knuckle. Wear it until Sam gets back. Until I can yank it off and slam it into his hand and tell him to get rid of the fucking thing.

I love him, ok? I’m not an idiot. I know he loves me, or whatever.

But why does the rest of the world have to know?

It’s like—

If I wear this thing, if I let Sam give it to me and make it part of my hand for good, then everyone’s gonna know.

No. Everything. Every evil thing that still has it in for us, I feel like—wearing this would just send out a big-ass “come and get us” beacon. Like, hello, demons of the world? Remember us? We spent most of our lives trying to kill you—hell, we killed one of your big bosses a couple of years ago. Surely you’d like to find us, now that we’re happy, now that we’re settled, now that I’ve almost accepted both of those things, and fucking rip us to shreds?

And what better way to do that, what better time, than when I relax, when I let down my guard and let myself be happy?

Jesus.

Oh, man, I’m—

C’mon, there’s no excuse for me to—

I’m afraid, ok? That’s what it boils down to. I’m fucking terrified.

Sometimes I think being happy is freakier than any monster, meaner than any demon. With them, you know what you’re gonna get: they want to eat you or tear out your soul, maybe both, and not always in that order.

But happy? Who knows what that fucker wants? How long it’ll stick around before it starts dicking with you, pulls the rug out from under your eyes and sends you spinning, way worse off than before because now you know what you’re missing. Now you’ve got something to lose.

I push my head in my hands and for the first time all day I’m glad that Sam’s not here. That he’s not seeing me like this, sniffling and whining with water falling over my face. With the stupid ring dug into my cheek.

I hate crying in front of him. And I know what he’d say, if he were here. He’d say:

“Dean. Dean? What’s wrong?”

Not original, maybe. But it’s heartfelt.

And it’s not until the couch dips, until I feel Sam’s knee against mine that I kind of realize that, hey. He really is here.

And I’m crying. Fuck.

He wraps his arms around me and tugs, pushes my face against his chest. He smells salty and hot, like the beach.

He smells like Sam, still.

I try to say something, I guess, because I kind of burble into his shirt. He sighs and lifts me into his lap, which I really should hate but which is exactly what I want right now. What I need.

“Sorry,” I say, after a while. Gravel in my throat. “Sorry, Sam.”

He chuckles, his fingers sweeping over my arms. Makes me shiver.

“For what?” he says. “Being a dick? Believe me, I’m used to that, man.”

“Hilarious,” I say. Starting to calm down.

He takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says, low in his chest. “I wasn’t trying to. I just—I wanted to give you something permanent. Something tangible. So I asked Bobby to look around for me. To find something appropriate.”

I sit up a little.

“Wait,” I say, my brain stuttering back to life. “So Bobby knows about this? About—?”

Sam blinks.

“Well, yeah,” he says, like I’m an idiot. “Of course. How could he not?”

“You told him?” I bark, panic caught in my throat.

He frowns.

“Dude, he’s been out here. He’s seen us together since—” he waggles his eyebrows.

“Yeah, but, I didn’t—you must have told him!” I say. Totally freaked. “Sam! Goddamn it! Why would you do that?”

Sam shakes his head—and grins like a freaking jack-o-lantern.

Then he starts howling.

“Seriously?” he manages after a minute. “Dean, come on! Bobby’s not an idiot.”

“No, of course he’s not, but how could he—?” We’d been careful, I thought. I’d been. Hadn’t touched Sam when Bobby was here, hadn’t kissed him for no reason or dragged him into the linen closet next to the ice machine—nothing. I’d acted like nothing had changed, like we were the same old Sam and Dean, giving each other shit, sure, but sure as hell not fucking or—

Sam was gaping at me, openmouthed and giggling.

“So you thought—nobody knew. That Bobby had no idea what was going on. Thought we were choosing to live out here, kinda isolated, together, alone, sleeping in the same bed because—?”

I feel myself blush, which makes no sense, since Bobby isn’t here, and apparently knows all about our sex life and doesn’t give a damn. But still. I feel like I’ve been caught with my shorts down and one of Dad’s Playboys in hand.

“Fine,” I say, resigned. “Fine. So.”

I look up at Sam, who’s leaning back into the cushions, still giggling.

So.

“I didn’t know they made incest promise rings,” I say. “Must be kinda a niche market.”

He barks with laughter. Reaches for me.

“Yeah,” he says with a grin. “I had a hell of a time finding the right card.”

I snort and tip my face up. Kiss him in a way that I mean to be gentle, I think, but it slips over into fierce right away, until he’s pushed me over, knocked my head into the arm of the sofa, and covered me with his body. Which I do not argue with.

Gets better when he sits up, pulls off his shirt and grabs at mine. Skin to skin and mouth to mouth and fuck, this is so much better than talking.

All that weird frantic I felt today, that kind of stupid panic that he wouldn’t come back, it becomes these messy kisses, ones that don’t really end but kind of slide one into the other, his tongue working, my teeth closing, our breath getting tangled in between.

I reach for his face, try to hold him still just for a damn second, and the stupid ring clinks his cheek. He stops, his eyes wide and full above me.

“Huh,” he says. “You’re wearing it.”

“Um,” I say, “Yeah. I couldn’t find the—”

He makes this noise in his throat and then he attacks me, drops all his weight down, groaning, fucking his tongue into my mouth. Holding my hand to his cheek. Digging the metal into his skin. He’s hard as hell, all of a sudden, his cock making its way into my inner thigh, insistent.

Then he stops.

Before I can even squeak, he's grabbed me. Half carries, half drags me out to the front desk.

Knocks my back into it, my shoulder banging the register, the phone behind my head. Swarms up on me like a freaking stack of bees. Pins me.

"Sam!" I say. Kinda squeal. "You can't be serious, man, somebody could walk in, they could—!"

He bites my ear.

"Fuck, Sam!" I moan, totally against my will. "Someone could see us, man!"

“Shut up,” he huffs, licking my neck. “Dean. You want this." He leans into me, all his weight against my chest.

"I don't—" I try to say. Mean to. But he does this thing with his fingers, racing them over my cock and I forget to keep talking.

He grins, the smokey one that makes my knees buckle. “Yeah, you do,” he says. “Now come on. Want you. Before somebody barges in.”

He sinks his mouth into mine. Bends me back over the desk, his hands fucking everywhere, all over me, it seems like.

He keeps teasing me through my zipper until I almost fall over, which makes him laugh, makes him wind his way down my body. I watch him kneel, open me up. Watch him stroke me, his eyes flicking up to meet mine. He does it again, and again, until I groan, “Please!” and he pulls me in.

I dig my hand into his hair, the ring bright against the brown, and rock into him. He grabs my hips and lets me lead, lets me fuck his beautiful mouth.

And it's quiet, silent except for my panting and his soft little moans which should totally not be hot, but god, they—

And then the phone rings.

The fucking phone rings right behind my head and it's so loud that I come like a shot, startled and shaking and saying all kinds of things that I'll pretend I don't remember. I rock in these waves that push me back and forth across his lips, that move me in and out of then and now and drop me back off here, with the desk digging into my back and the phone still shrieking and me all happy and out of breath.

He kisses my stomach, gentle, before he stands up and grabs the receiver.

"Front desk," he says, all smooth and self-satisfied. Licking my come off his lips, which, ok. Yes.

"Sure," he says. "That's fine. We'll make sure you have some first thing in the morning. Sure. Have a good night, Mr. Grayson."

He drops the receiver and leans down, cups my face in his hands, and gives me his tongue. I wind my noodle arms around his neck and take it.

Sweet. He is so sweet, like this. As sweet as Bigfoot can be, I guess.

"More towels?" I manage, after a while.

He smiles into my eyes. "Yeah. They're totally having an orgy in there. Or a blood sacrifice."

"Mmm," I say, leaning into him.

“Now,” he says, tracing my throat. “Take me to bed and show me how much you missed me.”

God, that is hot, but I don’t say that, of course. Don’t tell him that.

“Uh huh,” I say, aiming for nonchalant but landing on breathless. “Whatever you say.”

We don’t exactly make it to the bed, this time. But close enough.

**

When I wake up, it’s dark. Clock says after midnight.

I get up, careful not to wake the dead, and stumble into the lobby.

Make sure the front door’s locked, that Sam’s truck is still in the lot.

Part of me looks for my baby, even though I know she’s gone.

Some habits die hard.

That was what sealed the deal, when we took over this place. I knew she wouldn’t be happy cooped up here, rusting in the salt air when she wanted to be out on the highway, asphalt under her tires and the wind in her frame.

So I let her go, gave her to the old dude and made him swear to take care of her. That if he didn’t, I’d know—and I will—that I’d hunt him down and make him sorry for every single scratch in her paint.

“Ok,” he said, his blue eyes wild. “Ok, man. I get it. She’ll be safe with me.”

I miss her something awful, but I know. She’s out where she’s happy.

Di finds me at the window, wraps herself around my ankles. I guess we're cool now.

I bend down and rub her tummy, scratch her ears, and call her baby. She coos and reaches for me, holds my hand to her chest and rumbles.

Then the Bat Signal goes off, or something, because she leaps up and scrambles back behind the desk, into the apartment.

Sam rolls into me as soon as I lay down again. It's like being hugged by a hydra sometimes. Still.

“The ‘a’ is burned out in the sign again,” I tell him. “That same one in ‘Casa.’”

“Mmmmm,” he says. “That’s ok. I’ll put it on your list tomorrow.”

It gets quiet again. I can hear Di snoring in the kitchen.

Quiet. Then:

"Dean," Sam whispers. For some reason. "It's ok that we're here, right? You're ok here, aren't you?"

I sigh. Tap the ring against his hand.

"Yeah," I say. "I am. That's what scares me, dude."

Just like that.

"Mmmm," he says again.

Then I can't stop.

"I'm happy," I tell him. And myself. "Happy with you, Sammy."

He squeezes me. Snuffles into my neck.

"I know," he sighs. Right on the edge of sleep. "Glad you do, too."

Quiet.

Sounds of the night, again.

I count Sammy's breaths until I start to fall, locked safe in the arms of an octopus. The ring's heavy on my hand, an anchor that keeps me from drifting too far out to sea.


End file.
